


Drinking Games

by hanwritessolo



Series: Objects of Mass Destruction and Affection [5]
Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Angst, Angst and Feels, Complicated Relationships, F/M, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-14
Updated: 2018-04-14
Packaged: 2019-04-22 21:10:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 973
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14317227
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hanwritessolo/pseuds/hanwritessolo
Summary: In a time of conflict and chaos, to fall in love with a war hero is a game you are quickly losing.





	Drinking Games

You and the Glaives are playing a silly game of shots, and you are winning.

And by winning, you have probably consumed more vodka and tequila than all of the Glaives combined. Across the booth’s table, Libertus stares at you with a sickly worry that he hides behind his wide, toothy smile. Crowe bluntly argues that you are either reckless or delirious. Or both. Pelna laughs at your peachy face, while Luche only hands you another shot glass filled to the rim.

“Stop giving her another, you idiot—” you hear Crowe object, but she is two seconds late when you already let the alcohol set your throat ablaze. The sober part of your brain is at war against your obvious acts of stupidity. The already drunk part begs to differ. _Go big or go home,_ it chants—wild and vigorous. The evening only goes on relentlessly with the droning chatter, the gales of laughter, and the thrumming bass of an unknown song from the pub’s ancient radio that becomes a grating cacophony of voices in your already buzzing head.

But you promise to yourself that you are positively sensible, even at this point. Positively and sensibly _dizzy,_ if you are to be honest, but you do not mind. Not when the scorching fire of the alcohol burns and drowns Nyx’s name at the tip of your tongue.

And if Nyx is here—which, thankfully, he _isn’t_ —he is absolutely going to be the first one to beat some sense into your head and stop you from barreling yourself towards this road to self-destruction.

Well, he isn’t here, so there’s that.

And really, it’s not that you care that Nyx is not here. Why should his absence matter to you, anyway? It’s not like you two are ever officially together, whatever _that_ means. Officially fucking, yes—that can be the most accurate assessment of your relationship, a golden paragon of the _friends with benefits_ archetype—except that there are too many benefits to the list, such as going out on road trips to Galdin Quay, exchanging playlists, cuddling excessively until the wee hours of the morning, meeting his mother.

And yet, by all accounts of this nebulous, untitled affair, _What am I to him?_ is always a question you play on repeat on days he does not even call, a lullaby you sing yourself to sleep on nights he leaves you with an empty side of the bed.

That’s what you get for falling so madly in love with everyone’s hero.

But enough about that, you tell yourself. You are here to have fun and liberate yourself and forget everything that has to do with Nyx. Forget how kissing him is like a shotgun to the lips, gorging on the bullets, and swallowing the explosion like it is the sustenance you cannot live without. Forget how his hands are a battle cry for tenderness, or how his body a warfare on which you would gladly raise a white flag and surrender wholly, truly, wretchedly.

So you and the Glaives are playing another round of their silly game of shots, and this time you are losing.

And by losing, your whole body winces at the sight of Nyx entering the pub, one arm looped on a girl with a pretty smile and a pretty face.

And by losing, you haul yourself up and weave your way through the maddening crowd, out of this hell hole, and into the shivering, starless night, gutting yourself out and retching all of your drowned miseries into one pool of vomit.

The worried voice you next hear sends needles and axes at the back of your neck.

The taste of acid that lingers on your mouth turns to wildfire.

Nyx carefully reaches out to you and asks “Hey, are you okay?” purely out of concern, and you return it with a scathing, “Don’t fucking touch me.”

But he is unfazed by your fury. So he only boldy offers, “You’re drunk. Let’s get you home—“

“I’m quite fine, thank you very much, so you can just go back there and leave me the fuck alone,” you quickly counter with an equally bold answer.

But he is ever relentless, as always. So he tries again and begins to bring himself to explain, “Okay, it’s not what it looks like—she’s not—“

“Oh, Nyx,” you interrupt, and the sound of his name on your mouth is a cruel, fire-tempered steel you drive through his chest. “You don’t need to explain anything to me. We’re not exactly, _I don’t know,_ whatever the hell this is—“

“No, that’s exactly why I need to explain to you ‘cause I’ve been a coward. Please, I… shit, I just…”

This time, Nyx falters. He struggles to find the words, as if his vocabulary needs a ransom from feelings that has been taking it hostage.

But he still pursues it, hands restlessly raking through his hair, and finally says it out loud.

“I’m in love with you and it scares the the fuck out of me,” Nyx reduces the proximity inch by aching inch, until his hands find yours, and there’s a tremble in his voice, an unknown fear, like two tectonic plates afraid of the impending shift. “I love you and I want to be yours and it scares me ‘cause everyday out there on the field could be our last day and just… the thought that we can lose each other any second fucking kills me.”

The light buzz of liquor dissolves and your fury wilts. In its place, a swell blooms somewhere in your chest.

Because here is Nyx, in his most vulnerable, without the facade of bravery or the mask of a hero. No one is winning and no one is losing, and he is just like you, as he is just like everyone else.

 


End file.
